The One That Got Away
by IConcurVehemently
Summary: This was supposed to be the happiest day of your life, wasn’t it? Why else would you be wearing this monkey suit?


**Disclaimer**: Bones is property of FOX and Hart Hanson. Not me.

* * *

You're standing nervously at the altar, fidgeting with your bow tie. The priest behind you smiles benevolently at you – he's known you your entire life. In fact, his reassuring smile shows that he knows exactly what's going through your head right now. He knows how much you love her.

As you scan the audience, you see plenty of familiar faces. Mom and Dad are in the front row. She's crying; he looks like he had one too many pre-ceremony mimosas. They both smile at you, and you can tell that both of them are proud.

Your brother is standing next to you. He too looks sharp in his tuxedo – but then again, that's a Booth thing. He slipped you a twenty on the condition that you wouldn't tell anyone that you had to tie his bow tie.

You're aware of the fact that at least two rows of women are making flirtatious eyes at you, but you only look for a pair of ice blue ones. Luckily for you, the bridesmaids are beginning to walk down the aisle, each stepping in time with the lovely piano music in the background. She had insisted that they each walk alone – but that was her, always one to challenge archaic social traditions.

Amy is first, her long blond hair swept up in a neat bun. She's glowing – is she pregnant again? _Good for her_, you think. _It's about time she and Russ hit the sack. They'll be good lookin' kids too._ Next is Daisy. There were four men in the groom's party, so she's really just a space-filler. She doesn't know that though. You bet if she didn't have to be quiet, she'd be squealing. Either that, or walking her idol down the aisle. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to have every person in the wedding party walk alone.

Cam is next. She looks radiant in the ocean blue gown she's wearing, but then again, Cam has always been a radiant woman. Her ebony hair falls loosely around her face, and she walks with purpose, with dignity. Only her eyes defy her radiance – they are masked with the same uncomfortable look that you are sure graces your own. She looks to you; she knows what you are thinking. Her pitying gaze is meant to comfort you, but it only drives another nail into your heart. You intensify the fake charm smile that you've plastered on your face. Her returning look shows that she knows you're lying.

It makes you want to cry.

Last of the bridesmaids is Angela. Her maid of honor looks stunning. If Cam looked like a beautiful flash of light, then this woman was a brilliant bolt of lightning. Her smile alone could light up the room. In her sienna-colored eyes, you can see the deep love she feels for her best friend; it is apparent to the rest of the audience too. She's thrilled that her very best friend is marrying the man of her dreams; she is, after all, a good best friend, and like all good best friends, she wants absolute perfection for her Brennan - and perfection is what her best friend got. Muffled "ooh's" and "oh my, isn't she lovely's" float through the church in muffled undertones, soft bases to accent the piano's beautiful tenor. You find Hodgins in the audience, and your eyes meet; you both feel the same pain, although you long for different women.

But as gorgeous as Angela Montenegro may be, she doesn't hold a candle to the next woman that walks down the aisle.

Temperance Brennan is a beautiful woman – you've always known that. But today, she breaks every standard you've ever seen her set. She is not a bride that overdoes her look; there is no frilly dress, no caked on makeup, no intricate hair style. She has always been a woman of simple elegance, and that shows today. Her simple dress is stunning upon her, and her quaint veil makes her perfect features seem all the more delicate; you feel like someone has enlarged the most perfect porcelain doll ever made, breathed blessed life into her, and sent her forth to you. Her chestnut hair is pulled back into a carefully styled knot at the nape of her dainty neck, done in the chic fashion à la Angela. A quiet train follows her gown; you wonder if it was put there so that if she were to change her mind and run, she would trip herself.

You try to smile for her; after all, how many times have you pictured this moment? How many times had you envisioned this very march, a staple of the supposed happiest day of your life? You feel for your muscles; is her favorite charm smile still there? It is. You hope she thinks you're smiling it for yourself, not for her.

She finally reaches you; always the surprise, she throws her arms around you in a nervous hug.

"I'm scared, Booth," she whispers.

"Don't be, Bones," is all you can manage. Normally, you would reassure her with heart-talk, the type she could never understand but so eagerly looked to you to translate; today, you can muster none. You wonder who this man thinking is, and where the Booth he used to be has disappeared to. Perhaps he went to the Diner; he did have quite the stomach. You wish it was that easy.

He first started disappearing about eight months ago. The night before, his partner had gone out on a date with his brother. He was facing emotional distress, so he looked to his partner for support. She offered none. That was when he first started to slip away, like water through a cupped hand on a Saturday-morning hangover.

Yet here you were, standing at the altar. And she – the most beautiful woman on Earth – was looking to you for reassurance. It didn't matter where that Booth was – you were the one she was holding, silently begging for reassurance. Charm smile still in place? Check.

You hold her close to you. "This will be the happiest day of your life, Bones. I promise. I'm here for you. Don't worry."

You wish you could can the look she gives you. You would hide it in your breast pocket, close to your heart, and keep it safe from the world. Then you would return home, steal away to your bedroom, triple lock the door behind you, shut the window, close the shades, and open it. And it would paint your room in its brilliance, coloring the dreary walls and paintings and bed in its beauty. It would swirl around you, making you smile and laugh and cry; it would wrap you in its wonderous love – _her_ love. And you would become a recluse; how could you leave something so powerful, so touching, so magnificent? You would bask in it day after day, constantly in awe. They'd find you weeks, maybe years later, dead on the floor, the same enlightened smile upon your face, probably starved – for insignificant does food seem when compared to this _brilliance?_ But you would have died the happiest man who ever lived.

"Thank you, Booth," she whispers. You squeeze her hand, then let it fall, for Catholic doctrine does not allow for you to touch her during the ceremony. Your brother gazes at her; possessiveness hits the inside of your chest with enough force to knock you over. But it is the happiest day of her life, so you keep smiling.

You wonder what the old Booth would have done. Would he have confronted this uneasiness, pulled her aside and demanded to talk things through? Or was he such a fool for her too that he would have blithely smiled at her, willing her to be happy, even if every look caused an uneasy stab in his heart, a constant reminder that something was not right? You cannot ask him, for he is not here. But you wish he was.

Camille steals a glance at you; with your eyes, you try to tell her that you're happy. This _was_ supposed to be the happiest day of your life, wasn't it? Why _else_ would you be wearing this monkey suit?

You look over and notice that she is crying; tears fall like pearls against her elegant white gown. You smile at her innocence – if anyone deserves this, she does.

The priest calls for objections. You want to cry out, _This isn't right Bones! We need to talk about this!_, something, anything, _stop!_ But you hold your tongue. Charm smile's still in place. You wouldn't want to ruin the wedding album.

And just when it felt like your heart couldn't rip any more, the Father calls out the words you've been dreading. These should be the words that will make your life. These should be the words that paint a beginning on the canvas of your future. These should be the words your mother has taught you to pine for since you were a little boy. But instead, they are the words that will mar you for the rest of your pathetic existence.

"I now pronounce you Mr. and Mrs. Jared Booth."

* * *

**How's ****that**** for a plot twist? I bet I got each and every one of you! **

**Don't FOR A SECOND think that I support the Jared/Brennan pairing. I don't – in fact, I love to hate Jared's character. But I think this was a good example of what **_**could**_** have happened – but don't think it's what I want.**

**I might continue this if you guys want me to. I have a couple of ideas of where it could go. **

**Please tell me what you thought! Don't be afraid to say, "Vehe, you sick girl, why would you do that to Brennan/Booth?"**

**Vehe**


End file.
